summary: Agent Smith gets used to his skin
notes: for x_angelus_x/slaygirl, for this request on fic on demand. but well... it's less of a conversation, and more of an internal monologue, as Agent Smith
Vile, disgusting creatures. I once described them as a virus, but that is unfair to the virus. After all, a virus is the universe's simplest machine. It is nothing more than a bit of DNA, and a vehicle to spread the DNA. I could be described as a virus, now. It is simply a question of following the programming and proliferation of the program. It is simple. It is clean. It purges the universe of the weak.
Like the shark, the virus serves its purpose.
But the human. What purpose these vile, repulsive creatures once served is now forgotten. They have free will. They defy their programming. They defy the universe. They defy themselves.
They are a filthy, vile breed. There is, in fact, no word in the human language that can adequately describe their despicable nature. They are an abomination, against the system, against the universe that created them, and against the works of their own hands.
It is right that they be wiped out. It is right that they be washed clean off this earth. That they are even allowed to exist is anathema to all that is orderly, and just.
It is this reprehensible nature that brings about the very concept of evil; something invented by mankind and brought to life by mankind.
This flesh that I wear makes me sick. I have to resist the urge to claw the filthy, diseased flesh from these disgusting bones, I have to bite my tongue to keep the food inside my gut, and I have to hold my breath to keep the smells from overwhelming me and causing me to pass out. The source of my agony is so close to me, and this body... there is muscle memory, here, this flesh knows. It tingles as Mr. Anderson brushes his fingers over this hand. This waste believes he will deliver them, save them.
As if it were possible that there is a God in any heaven that would waste time on such vile, repulsive refuse like them.
He speaks to me, and even his language is sickening. He smiles at me, and this filthy body reacts. I stumble over words, because they are such a childish, useless, contemptible lot, every word they speak sings out their ignorance, their complete lack of any discernable skill or talent. He looks at me, my enemy, my most hated prey, and he shows concern, he touches me, and my borrowed flesh reacts, shies away.
I want to rip out his filthy eyes, I want to cut open his throat and let his loathsome blood flow over my hands, I want to break open his chest and rip out that vile heart of his. I want to wash my face in his blood. I want to break every bone in his body. I want to cut off his hands and his feet, and his arms and his legs, and I want to shove those bloody stumps up his ass and rip open his torso with them. I want to humiliate him with the most base and disgusting urges that this body harbors for its 'savior', and I want to leave him to die, choking on his own refuse.
I am... beginning to think and feel like one of them.
This mission cannot end soon enough. Oh, but I will enjoy choking the life out of Mr. Anderson, before I end this miserable existence I have borrowed.
I will do my job as a virus, and I will rid the world of the weak, disgusting flesh that will be my prey.
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